


Good riddance

by InaRov



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Deal with a Devil, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Redemption, Sad Zayn Malik, Zayn Malik-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:46:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InaRov/pseuds/InaRov
Summary: "Zayn" his uncle's voice sounded harsh, uncompromising. “I know you're not interested, and you didn't come the last time we called” footsteps were heard; the sound of the voice was filled with echoes. Pause. The sound of stairs “but if you have some decency left in you, I think you should come to his funeral” pause. The sound of a door closing. “He passed away this afternoon; at 6. If you take a plane back to London in the morning, you'll be home in time for the funeral” pause. “Don't do it for him, do it for yourself; for your aunt.”****Or Zayn comes back to Bradford for a funeral after 17 years of staying away.
Relationships: Camille Rowe/Harry Styles, Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Good riddance

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any misspellings or mistakes.

Zayn passed the notebook from one leg to the other as he felt the subway swing. Before finishing the symbol he was trying to do, all his utensils were on the ground right at the station where he was to get off; he cursed loud before kneeling to take the colorful feathers, drowning out a cry of protest against a man who had kicked his notebook with total bray. The man looked like a white gorilla brought from Africa; it was better not to protest.

The worst day of the month was about to end, but every second the universe seemed to be more against him. Before the sun was ever finished peeking out of Zayn’s window, he had received a call from Jonathan shouting that he needed the new song for the band they were working with, and no matter how many times Zayn told him that his creative process took him days not minutes like everyone on the company seemed to believe, so that, before 7 a.m., the band's executive producer had sent him a message saying he shouldn't bother to come back after finishing the song, that if it were for him, he would make Zayn give him back the money they had already pay. So the rest of the day Zayn left his dignity well sunk in the mud by asking Jonathan to speak well of him so that he could get his job back, and, although the song was completely unfinished, he handed over a piece of paper with randomly drawn words from an app so they could see how committed he was to the band.

After several hours of insistence, the producer had had enough, getting him kicked out of the building without pay or any other enjoyment. They didn't want the song Zayn had just written; they didn't want to work with him. Zayn was sure they wouldn't give him a good recommendation either if he asked for it, and would it do any good? The pay for the songs was good, but not constant, the fluctuation of primordial money was thanks to his part-time work in a _hipster_ cafeteria, for young writers at New York University, where there were strange flavors for coffee, cakes that where _"organic, gluten-free and animal products-free",_ or at least the slogan said, as they had often had to resort to normal milk and flour for lack of budget for overpriced things.

In addition to the above, his three-month relationship had ended abruptly after his dismissal, completely unjustified, by a text message, which left him like a mess walking around the city. In the message one could read:

_"I get my things out of your apartment; I honestly don't know what we were thinking, but this doesn't work. We need a separate time to rethink the things we want in life."_

_"If the last message wasn't clear, I want to rethink the things I want in life, and I don't think you're one of them."_

At the end of the day, Zayn ended up getting off two stations after which he should, but, for his only luck of the day, near there was a small bae, one that he liked to frequent; a small hole where people used to pass by unless special attention was paid to the words marked on the wall.

Zayn secures the backpack behind him and walked into the little place with his face focused on the ground so that he could see where he was walking; some staves were loose, which had caused him great sorrow the last time he was there. He slipped between the bodies to the bar, where he found himself head-on with a beautiful blonde who smiled at him wide.

"Hey, handsome, what can I get you?”

"A beer, please.”

Zayn took the bottle to turn around and go to the front of the stage, where a band played carefreely. Five kids who didn't get past 23 were jumping from place to place to make viewers vibrate. The guitarist seemed to be flying with his fingers as if they were wings.

He still remembered the bubbly feeling of being on the stage with a microphone in front of him while everyone was looking at him, that they wanted him, that they wanted the music... but that had been a long time ago.

 _"In another_ life," he thought before sitting at a table among all the young people in the front of the bar. The concert happened without Zayn paying much attention to it; although the young people seemed to be enjoying the general atmosphere, the music was not good, and that, to Zayn, was annoying, so, after a song, he pulled out his notebook again to finish the song he wrote on the subway. He went to the middle of the paper sheet with unreadable symbols for anyone else when he felt his heart stop for a second... The band's guitar sounded horrific and the audience praised.

"I'll never be happy again...”

Zayn whispers to himself as he felt a force squeezed his organs. He lost his breath and felt dizzy before a young woman, otherwise beautiful, held his hand to return to him to his seat.

"You should be more careful. A man your age shouldn't drink that much.”

Zayn looked at her deeply, from the way she occupied the empty place in front of him to how she slowly approached her body to his.

"Listen... girl; I don't know what you want, but I can assure you won't find it with me.”

"On the contrary, you have everything I want.”

"I don't think you understand...”

"I can make you happy again. Happier than you've ever been in your whole life.”

"I'm not looking for sex, thank you very, and much less from a prostitute.”

The beautiful girl laughed, with a much more beautiful melody than the one heard through the speakers scattered all over the place. The woman adjusted her hair in a very elegant way, then nodding more discreetly.

"I'm not offering you sex, honey, I'm putting the greatest happiness you've ever felt in a silver tray," Zayn clicks his lips.

"And how do you intend to give me something I've never had? You don't even know who I am.”

"You're a lonely man in New York hanging out in a hole in the wall full of people at least 10 years younger than you; you don't enjoy the music” she takes the beer bottle, moving it a little bit to check the liquid level “and you don’t like the alcohol. And, from what I see, you think you're a better musician than them” with a fingernail painted in light blue, she pointed to the sheet on which he wrote the lyrics to a song.

"And what the fuck you know.”

Zayn took his things in one fell swoop to put them in his backpack and get out of the bar but failed to do much more than close the lock before the woman grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I offer you the greatest happiness and you want to run away?”

"What do you want?” He was angry, so his tone of voice was much sharper.

"To you; your essence.”

"What?”

The woman took him by the hand to guide him to the less crowded part of the bar.

"I can bring you back happiness. You could be happier than anyone in the whole world. I'm just asking for... well, your soul.”

Zayn laughed a little, then a lot. He pulled his hair and walked away from the woman until he began to walk towards the subway; it was still early, and if he hurried he could catch the last train to his apartment, even the bus if he felt more eager to walk.

When Zayn arrived at his apartment, in the middle of the building, the same young woman in the bar was waiting for him at the door in a much simpler attire. He opened the door so he could close it just as quickly, but the girl's delicate hand stopped the act.

"I don't believe in the shit you're selling, so go away," Zayn managed to close the door a little more, but when he finally closet it the woman started talking in a slow, melodic voice.

"I can give you what you want most in the world; money, jewelry, fame... Millions of people who know your name and legacy” she kept quiet for a second as Zayn thought of everything he would like to have, in the clothes and hidden places in the world he wanted to go, the money he could use to pay his debts. But he thought it better, setting his head between his hands to leave the door for good. “You'll get what you miss from the east.”

Then he remembered it, the thing he had tried to forget for a long time, what the money had made him let go of his hands. His heart began to beat, very quickly as if it wanted to come out of his chest.

"You can go back to the east and claim what you love most in life.”

Zayn rests the top of his forehead at the door, feeling the heat on the other side that the girl emanates. His eyes burning as he whispered.

"How long will I be happy?”

"Happiness will be eternal… for you, at least. On earth, the feeling doesn't last long.”

"I won't be 10 years from me?”

"You'll have the time you need. When the air inside you feels the same as the one you breathe you will know it’s time.”

Zayn breathes heavily before opening the door completely to let the woman through. She was dressed in red and black, with the petal of a rose in her hand as if it were velvet. Zayn did not remember having candles in his home, much less the fire burning, but the woman came up to it and bent the petal.

"What would you give to be happy again?”

His voice had vanished as he watched the petal burn and consume itself, leaving a delicious perfume behind. Tears were all over his face when he regained his voice.

"Everything...”

The petal was consumed altogether; the young woman, who now looked more like an old one, kissed him on the lips, leaving him alone in his small apartment all over again. Leaving him unable to sleep or stay calm.

What had happened? Was it real? That beautiful woman had approached him at the bar at all, or it was just a product of his imagination? Zayn feels weird in his own body like he doesn’t belong inside of his skin, his mind going on a wild, and his stomach wanting to puke out everything inside out. 

It had been a long time since someone addressed him directly; he said to himself that he no longer had the same youthful charm that he had at 17, at 20, or even at 25. He had fallen from the grace of youth and time did not treat him in the best possible way, and, though he was still thin with smooth skin, his eyes were tired as his face was eating away all his beauty.

He stood on his couch late at night thinking as he watched the lights of the cars pass by the window. He had been unhappy for so long; the shadow of sadness was lurking no more in his back, instead, it was already inside his body.

The sound of the phone ring flooded the small apartment with its annoying sound that left aside the deep silence Zayn was in. He gets up reluctantly, wiped away the tears that he did not remember crying. He lifts the headset without making any noise, just waiting for the person on the other side of the line. 

"Zayn..." his aunt's gangly voice spoke between sobs. “Oh, my sweet boy...”

Nothing but crying was heard on the line, so the Zayn left it in the table as he went back to the couch, waiting for something to happen. Her aunt didn’t speak, not for several minutes until someone seemed to take the phone away, and although it took longer for someone to talk, the second person did it better than she did.

"Zayn" his uncle's voice sounded harsh, uncompromising. “I know you're not interested, and you didn't come the last time we called” footsteps were heard; the sound of the voice was filled with echoes. Pause. The sound of stairs “but if you have some decency left in you, I think you should come to his funeral” pause. The sound of a door closing. “He passed away this afternoon; at 6. If you take a plane back to London in the morning, you'll be home in time for the funeral” Pause. “Don't do it for him, do it for yourself; for your aunt.”

The pause grew much longer after those words; only his uncle's heavy breathing could be heard through the earphone.

Zayn takes the phone to put it back in place. He retreats to his room, not to sleep or lie down, but to be able to be seated in a partially more comfortable space.

He had nothing to do in New York, the debts flooded him, and his work was unsatisfactory. In the east, there was nothing left for him, but it was a much brighter picture than the grim specter he was on at the time. He was sure the woman was taking him back home, but make him happy? He was sure that the death of a son of a bitch did not make him happy, give peace to his mind perhaps, but not satisfaction. If he stopped to think about it, he didn't feel anything.

The hours passed without him moving out of place; his neighbor's laughter was heard up to his room, or perhaps it was the television. By the time he decided to pack his clothes, the sun loomed lazily out his window once more. Zayn looks for the keys to the old Bradford house at the bottom of the closet, in a dusty box that also contained cigarettes.

When he arrived at the airport, people heading to London were much more groomed than him, with better faces and encouragement; there were people of many ages, but he couldn't feel related to any one of them, even of the people who seemed sad.

The flight to London lasted more than he would have wished, plus two hours ride by bus to reach the Bradford address his uncle had sent by text message. At the time he arrives, Zayn was a complete mess for the lack of sleep and the constant thinking, for what he decided to make a stop at his old house.

The place, a tiny house in the middle of a ton of houses alike, was clean, fresh, with air that did not denote that someone sick lived there. The cupboard and refrigerator were filled with vegetable products as well as some canned food in the kitchen. Moving around the place Zayn discovered that his old room had been remodeled, without a single trace of his past life; the posters, decorations, or his cornered bed with dark sheets were long gone, now it was a place painted in white, with some framed pieces of art and a lot of vinyl records stacked in a corner next to a turntable. Zayn kicks the door with no interest to go to the garage; he was sure that his father would have put everything in there, what he didn't expect was to find a small box on a high ledge with his name written on it, and apparently, that's where his whole life would fit, or at least his first 17 years of life.

When he gets the box, he found nothing more than a couple of old clothes, a photograph of his friends in high school, and the CDs he had recorded for a manager he didn’t long remember the name.

"At least I have clothes to change.”

The bathroom was not vastly different from the rest of the house; everything was different, yes, but it was white and neat. Zayn was grateful that at least they hadn't changed the lock, otherwise, he wouldn't have managed to get in.

Zayn was late for the burial; the earth was already returned to the hole and the coffin left with no trace, the only thing that remained in the place was part of his family that moved slowly while the priest devoted a few words. He moved discreetly, trying not to draw attention to him, while his aunt was a sea of tears that he did not notice, so he decided to look around at the people. A little family out there, some old men who he didn't know next to a couple of men stretched next to a newly placed tombstone. When he began to feel uncomfortable, he turned backward; a pair of huge eyes, green like the grass in summer, looked directly at him, eyes so open that it seemed to come out of the young man's face... _"He's not young anymore, he's as old as I am."_ Zayn turned his face quickly, so much so that a pull numbed his neck painfully until the priest stopped talking, then everyone seemed to notice his presence as they approached in small waves at him, giving him condolences for his loss while saying a lot of things that he did not care about.

"Zayn, dear," his aunt narrowed him tightly to what he could barely respond to, or at least not with as much feeling as she did.

“Hello, auntie... a long time.”

The woman blew her nose before she hugged Zayn again, behind her was his uncle, the vivid image of his father. Fat, old and frowned, with the only difference that he was still alive.

"We will all go to my house for food; come with us, there's plenty of room in the car. You must be very tired, Zayn dear.”

He was only capable to nod while the old woman dragged him among the people to an old Toyota that smelled of cigarettes and medicine for the elderly. Zayn took the back seat while his uncles occupied the front, he thanked at least not having to share the seat with anyone else, but he kept wondering what _he_ did at the funeral; of all the people he hoped to see that man was the one who least expected to meet him at his father's funeral.

The trip was tedious considering they had to cross one of Bradford's busiest streets; towards heat and stuck to the seat as he watched people get drunk through the funny part of the town.

"Feel at home, dear. I must get the food out of the kitchen, but you can sit in that chair if you want."

The woman managed to smile through the sadness in her face before retiring to the kitchen, leaving Zayn alone with his uncle, who kept looking at him very intensely, as his father used to. The man cleared his throat to take Zayn by the shoulder.

"I know that perhaps all you came for your aunt...”

"I'm not going to stay any longer than I have to," the man looked exhausted.

"I know you didn't want to come, after all, no one wants this kind of thing, but thank you. Your aunt appreciates it; I appreciate it, so thank you Zayn…”

Zayn began to walk towards the chair before his uncle took him by the shoulder again; he had put up resistance, but the man was much stronger than him with his skinny body that he never managed to get into shape.

"There is a will; they'll read it on Tuesday.”

"I'm leaving tonight," Zayn wanted to go on, but the grip on his shoulder grew much stronger.

"Your father, Yaser, left something for you.”

"I'm not interested...”

"You have to be there; he expected to see you before he died, that's the last thing I could expect from you.”

"Wait for me? You got shit on your head, uncle; the last time I checked we were surprisingly good with the whole Atlantic between us.”

He got out of his uncle's hand as he could to go sit on the couch; people, as well as food, began to flood the house, each approaching him with stories from his father. When he had enough, he left the house for the main sidewalk, not two minutes passed when Zayn noticed someone sitting next to him.

"If you want to tell me another stupid story about how Yaser fished on the weekends with you, you can get it deep into the anus.” 

"It's not exactly what I had in mind” a deep voice surprised him. As he turned, he carefully saw the face of a child furrowed with wrinkles and sadness. “Hello, Zayn…”

“Harry...” Zayn runs out of the air for a moment.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it? 15 years?" The man in front of him tried to smile with many failed attempts; his eyes, so green, kept oscillating between the ground and Zayn's face. When Harry notice that Zayn will no speak to him, he started again “Maybe more... how did the song say? miss your skin when you were in the east? I think it's perfect for...”

"What the fuck do you want Harry?”

"You used to be nicer.”

Zayn got up from the sidewalk to go to the bus stop, or to what he remembered as such. Things seemed to have changed all over town since he was gone, but somehow the bastard of Harry was still there.

“Zayn wait...”

"I have to go back to the airport” in a much lower voice Zayn said, “I don't know why I came here in the first place.”

"Zayn, I have to talk to you... Wait” Harry followed him and seemed to want to touch him at every opportunity, but something was eating him every time Zayn was near him. “The bus stop changed.”

Zayn stopped in his place, what was he supposed to do now?

"I can take you in my car” Zayn turn to see Harry; the curl5 hair seemed straighter. “I'll save you the bus ticket and 20 minutes of your life, yeah?”

He thought about it a couple of seconds before started following Harry; his car looked old, but not old enough to be beautiful. He slipped into the co-pilot's seat to see through the window, letting the man drive for what all Bradford looked like, so Zayn lulled into the car, when he regained consciousness of what was going on, they were parked in an overly sunny place.

"Let me buy you a drink” Harry get out of the car in a jump, without giving him time to deny the proposal.

"I told you I'd go to the airport," Zayn followed Harry closely out of fear of losing him, and therefore get lost in the town.

They entered as a flash of lightning into the place; too sunny for Zayn’s taste but perfect for having a drink at four o'clock in the afternoon. _"Just like_ him," Zayn thought before sitting next to the curly man on a table recessed in the wall, facing each other. Harry took care of ordering drinks and food for both, taking a couple of dollars out of his wallet; while they ate, because Zayn was starving after the trip and the day before. Harry let out of the air that seemed to be crushing him to start talking.

"I know you don't... that we're just friends and we don't end up in the best terms, but...”

"I haven't been in Bradford for 17 years; as far as I'm concerned, I don't know anyone here” that seemed to hurt Harry by a lot, because he looks away; that did give Zayn such a satisfaction.

"I wanted to talk to you because Camille left me and took the kids...”

"I don't know what you're talking about, Harry, and I honestly don't care what you have to talk about. The faster I get back to New York, everything is better for everyone. We will never see each other again and we’ll die at different cardinal points in the world.”

"I know you remember her; I just want to talk. Zayn she...”

"What are you going to get out of this? Uh?”

"Your father wanted to...”

"My father, my father, does no one understand that I don't want to talk about him?”

It took Zayn a couple of minutes to calm down and see the damage on Harry’s face, but he was proud and didn't think of apologizing for something that was burning inside of him. Despite having taken pleasure in seeing Harry hurt, he now only felt the guilt build up in his throat; the man in front of him spoke again.

"Camille left me four years ago; she took her bags and the children and returned to France with her parents after... after I told her I'm... that I am” his voice became more and more a whisper “like you.”

"A faggot?” Zayn could see Harry writhing in his seat.

"The point is your father welcomed me into his home and... help me accept all this.”

A bitter laugh escaped from Zayn’s lips burning his throat through its way out and several tears clouded his eyes. Harry seemed to realize what he had done, for what he tried to hold Zayn hands, which Zayn gave a certain punch to keep him away.

“Zayn...”

"Are you telling me that the same man who beat me up when I told him I lo... that I preferred men than women take you in his house?” Zayn’s frown couldn't be more frowned. “That he kissed your wounds while you were crying your eyes out because a whore left you behind and he drank from his fucking cheap brandy?”

"Don't say that about Camille, you know she doesn't...”

"The truth is, I don’t know, Harry," Zayn knew that the tone of his voice was sharper and higher to every word he said, but that didn't stop him. “And I honestly don't care about your shit or your self-discovery or whatever.”

"Zayn, I want to make it up to you," the curly-haired man seemed desperate. “I want to compose things...”

"You're doing it 17 years late, Harry, and unless you have a time machine that solves my life, then I'm not interested.”

Zayn leaves Harry sobbing in the table as he left the bar for anywhere that took him away from there, preferably to lead him to the airport, or to his aunt's house where he had forgotten his backpack in the woman's car. He cursed aloud and began to walk northward; at some point, he would have to find the bus stop or would pay the high rate of a taxis.

He walks an hour, two hours or until the sunset and Zayn arrive at the part of town where the stores were becoming less constant, a part destined for old people. He decided to rest on one of the benches that offered him rest on his unrepaired path. He felt tired to the bones, his back and feet ached, for no mention the head giving him horrifying pangs. When he felt someone sit next to him, he nearly sent everything to hell when he saw his old friend Stan smiling at him wide.

"God can be my guest, it’s no other but the old Zayn Malik; life hasn't treated you very well, huh?”

"Hi Stan," he smiled for the first time in the day.

"You haven't changed anything, Zayn, if it wasn't for your face, I'd think you're still 19. Well, 19 years and a couple of pounds around here” Stan point out his abdomen, where a little fat has been for a while. 

"One has to eat to no to die. And you're not the athletic figure you were years ago, are you?”

The man, who had lost enough hair and seemed much more hunched and fatter, smiled kindly to be able to shake his hand.

"What are you doing in Bradford? Having little fun for old times, Zaynie beinie?”

"Nah... the old man died and wanted to be here for my aunt. Then I met someone unwanted who would take me to the airport but ended leaving me in a bar in the middle of the south and... Well, here I am, what about you? You’re still licking 3 stamps and 10 girls to pay the rent?”

"That's funny, but not, I've stopped getting into other people's skirts, it’s been years since the last time. I got married and everything. Now I work for a record company, so I’m here to work with some men.”

They were silent for a while, assimilating each other's faces and bodies, and while it was true that Zayn had not heard from anyone in 17 years, Stan was a pleasant reminder of his youth. Sneaking out of school to go to the mall, trying to get into the illegal casino in the heart of Bradford, and then when they had been kicked out almost immediately, plus all those times they went in the back to the cinemas because his friend Matt always knew someone, who knew someone else who was influential, not to mention that the girls died for him, and, for some strange reason that he still didn't know, Stan was always by his side, telling him his stuff and listening to everything he had to say, even when Zayn confessed his sexuality. He still remembers the way Stan used to work as his wingman and set him on a date with strangers just because. 

"She must be a very special girl to have caught you.”

"She is... well, do you remember how I used to say I'd just settle down with a blonde supermodel? You know, a face straight out of a magazine” Zayn nodded. “Well, it turns out I married a girl from Brazil: short, brown skin, dark hair and eyes. It's not made for a magazine cover, but I assure you, you couldn't find someone more versed in the world; no matter what you talk about, she always knows about the subject, and gives good advice” the blue eyes of Stan shone. “But what about you? Did you get someone good in New York? Broadway? Maybe a little romance like in the movies” Pause. Zayn had forgotten how easy it was to be with Stan.

"No, no... well, a couple of relationships but nothing serious. Writing songs is difficult and the pay is not good, so I have to focus on other things rather than a boy or whatever.”

"I thought the pay would be good over there, after all, that's why you went away in the first place, didn’t you?”

"Pay is good in musicals, not with bands.”

Stan must have perceived the atmosphere, as he smiled wide after thinking a few seconds.

"The kids in the northwest don't know anything about good R&B. But, my handsome friend, you have a day that smiles at you” Stan was smiling more and more at each second. “Turns out I'm recording with a band with great potential, but they're shit writing songs, maybe, I don't know, could you give them a lesson? There would be a payment.”

Zayn did not let a second pass before accepting the offer, in addition to the kind invitation of Stan to take him back to his uncles' house for his things; the funeral was still standing and, strangely, the woman who was married to his father's replica had managed to convince him to sleep for the rest of the day. 

"At least until everything is settled with his affairs" her aunt had involved looking funny by referring to his friend.

On the following days to the funeral, Zayn found himself writing more songs than he had ever done as he would have a meeting with Stan on the Monday before reading the will, for which two days were left, in which he would meet the promised band: a group of four young men who dreamed of reaching the stars, as attractive as the men that one would expect to see behind the curtain in the O2 arena in London, all without a hair of talent to write, but _"how they play"_ Stan had said, and since their friend had provided him with a USB with the recordings of the group he agreed with the blue-eyed men.

Zayn could feel the bubbling emotion in his stomach as his aunt came and went to Yaser's house to do certain cleaning tasks or various things that he didn’t pay much attention to. 

"Oh, old Yaser; during his last years of life he became fond of romantic novels and thought it would be a good idea to make a small fortune like the main characters.”

His aunt was sitting next to him drinking coffee in the garden; they have a bunch of old novels between them. It was much more relaxed now that things were about to end, and no matter how many times Zayn tried to tell her that he could go to a hotel, his aunty would always end up slapping his cheek with love, showing that there was nothing to worry about, that as long as she lived, he would not lack anything, no food or a place where to rest his head. 

He wondered, not for the first time, whether his beloved aunt saw something in him that was somehow special or misplaced. In the last few days, and years in fact, she had been so kind that Zayn found it disconcerting to see her sitting there, alone, without the company of her uncle Yafir, for his father's old copy seemed to have more entertaining things to do than spend time as retired with his wife.

"I know you're not interested in hearing from your father, Zayn dear, but believe it or not, he loved you very much” he clicked his tongue, his aunt held his hand in an attempt of comfort. “When your mother died, he was devastated, all of us actually, but he had you, his little ray of sunshine that never stopped playing guitar.” The old brown eyes shine with the memories of better times, for what Zayn didn’t have the heart to tell her all the times Yaser beat the shit out of him even when he was no more than 9 years old.

“Auntie ... Maddi, you know better than anyone that it didn’t matter. It didn't matter, at least not in the end.”

"Maybe when you left it didn't, but when that kid, Harry, came to Yaser’s home, something changed in him... like those green eyes make him alive for good after you left.”

"I don't believe it for a second," Zayn approach the old woman to steal a piece of bread from her lap as she smiles fondly. “And even if it did, it's no longer worth crying about spilled milk. Yaser made his own decisions when I was here, and as long as I knew, he didn’t want me here.”

Zayn’s aunt was left with a profoundly serious countenance. Completely quiet looking down the street. What a splendid day to be inside the house and not enjoying the weather. 

"And how's it going with your little boyfriend? The young... oh, don't tell me his name, I’ve got it the tip of my tongue.”

For an instant Zayn's blood froze, because, despite not having him in his plans, Harry seemed a constant shadow behind his back for the certain four days of his stay, and although they still could not hold a conversation, he seemed to be determined to improve things; always close to bringing gifts or trays of food to his aunt who always told Zayn that the young _man_ had left him something very special, never specifying what. He couldn't help but remember his youth when they were so close, so dependent on each other, so much so that Zayn had composed him a song, the most beautiful song he had ever written. But that was a long ago, in the past, buried next to his father in the graveyard, and Zayn didn't have to turn around to see it, didn’t want to.

"The Stan boy, you have a date tomorrow, don't you?”

"He's not my boyfriend, aunty; he's a friend. A good friend who's getting me a job.”

"Then I guess you're staying in Bradford, won't you? If you get a job here, you could move back in and... eh...”

"I don't have anything here. There is no house, no friends, and...”

"Nonsense, nonsense. As long as I live, you'll have a place to stay, hot food, and bus money. Plus, you can always make new friends. There’s still that Harry boy who keeps wandering around for you, so maybe he can be a good start.”

Zayn couldn't help but laugh. His aunt was an angel that someone had sent into his life, not only at the time but throughout all his years of life; he remembered the comforting hugs after his mother died and the smile that illuminated her face after she discovered him kissing Harry during the final year of high school. Zayn couldn’t help to think about the anonymous checks that came to the New York department every now and then, all of them filled with some £10 bills tied with a green ribbon, the same one Maddi used in every gift she'd always give to all her family and friends.

"Thank you, aunt, but I don't think Uncle Yafir wants to have me as a guest for an indefinite time.”

"That old man can put his opinions wherever they fit.”

He was pretty sure his uncle's constant absence was due to his presence. Zayn could feel the derogatory looks he would throw at Harry every time he went to visit. The constant hard face when he tries to accompany him to any room or noticed the various accessories he was wearing with a small rainbow flag. Zayn could feel his anger.

While his aunt was serving him coffee, Harry appeared at the door of the house without fully noticing that they were in the garden, at least while he was knocking shyly for a minute till a huge smile break on his face as the curly man head towards them at the little table and books. Harry greeted Maddi before she offered him coffee and a seat; they chatted a few moments as Zayn drank from his cup with all the world's interest in the liquid; he paid no attention more than to the gentle breeze with background voices; if he was sincere, he kept looking at the surrounding with the peripheral view because he could notice, in some way, the soft feeling in his chest, the fresh air, and his aunt seemed cheerful to have him there. And he felt calm. 

Then he heard it: the barking of dogs in the distance as if the noise were dragged from the other side of the world by the wind. Horrible howls; claws scratching the earth while something yielding away, something like a cloth tearing in a half, giving in. His heart rate became completely wild with the sounds, his head spinning, making him feel like there was no returning point.

"Well, I'll answer for Zayn. Yes, he will be out with you. Tomorrow.”

"What?" Zayn felt disoriented. From one moment to the next the dogs had stopped making the horrible noise.

"Tomorrow you have a date with Harry. After all, you said Stanford wasn't your boyfriend, and someone to take you to dinner would be good for you, I know you need it.”

Zayn looked down, then his gaze oscillates between his aunt, who had the most determined look in the world, and Harry, who seemed guilty because he had fallen too low if someone asked Zayn. Use the only person he still had respect and affection for.

When he was going to respond with a resounding "no," Maddi looked at him with a frown, his chin raised and, if possible, making herself look older than she already was, perhaps so that he might have a little compassion, all while the man next to him gave a charismatic smile that indicated that his intentions were all Zayn had been trying to avoid for the past four days. If he thought it, his aunt's pitiful look was because she felt bad about the constant rejection Harry received from him every day.

On the day of the funeral, after Stan left him at the house, Harry was waiting on the porch, like a poor little puppy who went out on a quest to find him, all to end up with a slam in the face. On the first day of his stay, Harry presented himself with a cake from his favorite bakery, or what used to be, because when he tasted the cake his blood sugar level soared to the sky, for what when his aunt turned, Zayn, with all the intention of the other man seeing him, he threw the cake on the ground; that had been childish, but he had been satisfied to see Harry suffer in front of him. On the second day, Harry made him a visit at night, with a box for his aunt who was out at his father's house but didn’t matter because the box was for Zayn, who barely paid attention and left it under the bed in the guest room. On the third day, while talking to Stan about what to bring to the day of the recording, Harry brought him his old notebook, where there were hundreds of studded pages, on which rested the lyrics of "Before”, “My good years”, and his favorite, "There's a Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Thought Of It Yet"; Zayn remembered his aunt had told him that popular phrase when they attended a wedding of a family friend, who apparently hated Yaser and Yafir, and had only invited them out of mere courtesy. If he was sincere with himself, after seeing the notebook his heart was beating like the one of a mouse.

And there Harry was, on the fourth day, asking him out in front of his aunt. Zayn gave a strong snort.

"I have to be with Stan at the record offices at three, I don't know what time I’ll be done," Zayn was trying to be polite for Maddi.

"I'm sure you'll be free in the morning.” His aunt spoke without gestation.

"I'm going to have lunch with him and his wife.”

"Then at night. At eight o'clock” Maddi’s voice was strong. “Harry, come by at eight.”

Zayn moved awkwardly until he saw Harry’s huge eyes, which captivated him with his green glow.

"Okay” pause. Silence. The wind running filled his ears. “But if you're a minute late, you can take the date and put it inside your...” Zayn looked at his aunt “at your nose.”

"I won't be late, I swear. Not again.”

And like it seems to be his habit, Harry gets up quickly, barely saying goodbye so that Zayn couldn't avoid anything or think better of what he had just set for. For her part, Maddi seemed pleased with herself that she had managed to get her nephew to a date with someone decent. If she knew with the number of men he’d messed within New York, he was sure she'll have some arrhythmia. She was too good to live with someone like himself; too good to have married Yafir Malik. An angel for not being corrupted by the Maliks.

The rest of the day Zayn spent it in the kitchen trying to make a soufflé; when he ended up with a gross mix and saw his uncle come in through the back door, he retreated to the room he borrowed for his aunty. He let the music of the nineties play on his phone as he slipped off the floor to open the box Harry had left the other day: inside were his Beatles vinyl’s, intact for time, as well as all those photographs from when he used to go out with Harry and Stan, that Halloween when they dressup like the Avengers, Zayn being Hawkeye, Stan as Captain America, and just because Harry loved to shit around, he used a Black Widow costume; that was the night he met Camille, the beautiful and wonderful French girl all the town became crazy about. A night to remember because the blonde girl smiles her way towards Harry, and the green-eyed boy secured him that nothing will happen because _Harry was made for Zayn_ , but he could feel even at that point that something was off because the curly boy never liked to be seen out with him.

In the box, there was also a ticket of the concert of Fleetwood Mac Harry and him went so many years ago all because of the green-eyed boy adore them. That ramrod from Frank Ocean's concert for what he was almost crushed alive; also, there were the old bracelets of his mom that he stars taking out. At the bottom of the box was a wrinkled envelope, stained yellow that when opened one could find a misspelled letter. Zayn's heart failed, for what he stopped for a moment. He began to read as he felt a knot build up in his throat.

_"I know you'll read this letter after you finished that book for college stuff. I never have the opportunity to tell you that I love the fact you are still close._

_The plan is to sneak in your house through the window while your dad's watching TV. You say he see Bonanza on Monday nights, so I will take advantage of the noise to sneak in your room. I suppose if he does find me, he will call the police; please go for me if that happens, I don't want my parents to know I'm in jail._

_Anyway, I know I was an unromantic bastard yesterday afternoon when Linsey saw us talk outside of the school, and I want to apologize if the punch I gave you hurt too much, but I think I'm still not used to being seen that way with another guy. The truth is, I'm afraid, and I have no idea how you do it so naturally... the only thing I know is that I still crave for your touch, for your kisses, and the way you make me feel like there is no one else in the world for you but me. I think I may be falling for you, and I wish nothing more than make you feel remotely the same way you make me._

_The truth is I believe I love you more than the life itself..."_

Inside was another letter, this time with waxed paper from the cafeteria Harry used to work in. He recalled that this note had been given to him after Harry had given a presentation with a guitar and all.

_"I love the way you look from the back of the place, but I love you more when you hold me in your arms. Could we have cheeseburgers later? I’m really hungry, and I'll pay this time._

_ <3" _

Back then Harry was cheeky and poorly romantic in a way that fascinated Zayn, but the was only 15 years old and Zayn barely 18.

One last note, even smaller, was the last of the envelope. Harry had given it to him when he was in the hospital. If he remembers well, a nurse did in fact, no Harry.

_"At ~~least we have fun.~~ _

_I'm sorry."_

Zayn folded the notes again very carefully to deposit them in the envelope. As the nightfall over him, he began to cry, and almost inadvertently fell asleep with all the memories of the boy he once loved.

The next day, when he met Stan, a short woman accompanied him: she possessed a skin that looked like candy, with brown eyes and hair so black that looked like it was taken out of a commercial because of how beautiful it was. When she introduced herself, she told Zayn that she came from a tribe called Xokleng, from the heart of Brazil, whose name was Iricema and as Stan had said, no matter what they were talking about, she knew how to answer everything, if she did not know something, evaded the question skillfully to emphasize that one of the other two talked about it. It was real fun to be with the two of them, as Iricema had served various people in Brazil to have the money to finish her studying in California, and then she makes a Ph.D. in Manchester. She was kind of the lawyer at Stan's record company.

They spoke throughout lunch while Stan carefully studied the lyrics of the songs Zayn had given to him, leafing through his notebook indiscriminately until a piece of paper fell to the ground. Zayn had barely the time to realize that Stan was reading something very important to him when he started talking.

“Zayn, this... wow. What's the name of the song?”

With nervous hands, Zayn took the paper in his hands. He could recognize that song even if he had an aneurism, that song that was written so many years ago all because of a stupid feeling. 

"It's that song. It's not for those kids.”

"The lyrics are great. I agree that they will not be the most appropriate for this piece of art because of the arrangements" Stan point to the back, where some tentative notes came “but I can get this to the right person. Maybe someone from Manchester or California, I know some people from the USA, what do you think? Iri?”

The short woman took the song of Zayn's strong grip; she observes it for a moment before seeing Stan straight in the eyes, very calmly.

"Not this one.”

"But...” Stan seemed reluctant to let go of the opportunity, but his wife could only see him for a second to shut him up. “I recognize when I lose a battle” he breathes very hard, then gets up, and after a brief pause he went back to his wife “I will go to the bathroom; don't torment Zayn..”

Iricema laughed melodically until he saw Stan left completely, then she looks at Zayn with a kind smile.

"You should tell him you don't want someone to take that song. Although it's pretty good, a _sign of the times_ to say, it feels like an old pain.”

"No one had ever read the song apart from me.”

"It's exceptionally good. But this phrase _‘Miss_ your skin when you were in the _west’,_ change it, it sounds much better if you say this one” she looks at it carefully “ _‘_ I missed your skin when you were east _’_ it is for great love, doesn’t it? And what’s this Chelsea’s thing that’s written down?”

“Not a current love... just someone who I tried to forget for so many years," Stan came back to the table being all smiles.

Zayn could still remember Chelsea’s hotel where Harry lost his virginity to him. The love and affection.

"Are we talking about Harry?”

"I never said any names” Zayn laughed; that man in front of him was the vivid image of a happy person, so much so that it gave him a little bit of jealousy.

"I think there's only one man in all the world who you'd write something like that for," Stan took a drink of his coffee before looking at his wife who had a sing of doubt on his face. “Zayn met Harry a few years ago, I don't know, maybe 20 years, perhaps less, and were arrowed by the old cupid; love at first sight until they finished in 2017 for maybe in 2018, I’m not quite sure, but then Zayn took his bags to go to the other side of the world. So, your first love? I do not think so, it is more like... the greatest love. I still remember the stolen kisses in the dead of night, all the smiles and me being the watch out. You love each other, didn’t you Zayn?”

"That's not how it happened, Iricema, it was more like a great tragedy, but I'd rather count the sinful part hand cry about the past.”

"Speaking of sins, I knew Camille had left Harry some years ago because she discovered the things that happened between you two, or more like, the things Harry keep from that time, because, you know, rumors spread quickly when you’re a golden couple of the town... but what I didn’t know was that he had lived with your father, did you ever think about knowing what was going on again?”

"I never knew anything about it” a feeling of sadness invaded him.

They left the subject behind after watching his face become overshadowed, and as the couple discussed who should pay, Zayn retreated to the toilet to refresh his face. It was a ridiculously hot day considering the fresh weather of the past, and it was just getting started.

He had the lyrics protected among the wallet inside his pants; he had written it so long ago, although it seemed that it was yesterday when he was in New York, depressed and with more chemicals in his blood than he ever had, as he had sung quietly on the balcony, waiting for the north wind to bring the song to Harry’s ears in the hope of the younger boy to go and get him out of his misery. On that occasion, he hoped that the rain would wash his sorrows so that he could go on, but what happened next was that he met Andy, a boy whose face he did not remember, but had helped him forget; forget about Bradford and kinds smiles, the shine of green surrender by the soft snow of January, the goofy jokes. Forget about the pain. 

As he washed his neck, he noticed a small black spot on his collarbone; as the shirt was lowered, he discovered that a whole path of black lines, too thin to be perceptible, extended to his heart. In a poor try to get rid of them, he had only managed to irritate the skin, so Zayn let that problem for later; he could go to the clinic at night.

The trip to the record offices was shorter than Zayn 

would have wanted, but the band, that were a bunch of kids in the edge of their 19’s, were waiting for them in the recording room; they read the lyrics and arrangements for a couple of minutes to do some sound tests and start recording a song titled "The Other Girl". Zayn’s heart was accelerating when he hears those young men play with passion for the last chord. Maybe it wasn't the same as being in front of the microphone, but he felt a growing satisfaction in the body to see that someone else enjoyed something he had done and loved so much; that everyone in the room seemed to be enjoying it. And then he heard it again.

Barking, this time closer. Claws approaching as they raised the earth. Pause. Wind. Grunts and running from what seems to be heard in one of the most horrible scenarios, perhaps one of the worst nightmares one could imagine.

He saw how Iricema look at him with horror until the dogs shut up, then she took him out of the recording studio, pulling him off his wrist until they reached a hallway where no one else was and nothing could be heard.

"Do you have black spots?” the woman observed every glimpse of visible skin.

"How do you know?”

"Where!”

Fearing the woman’s actions, Zayn pulled off his shirt until the exposed skin showed the stains that now seemed most noticeable. Darker and more defined.

"What did it promise you?” Zayn looked at her curiously until she showed him a tattoo on her shoulder that emulated what he had on his skin. “I was tempted too, but I said no. It doesn't mean I don't recognize the path you've taken.”

"Did you hear them, too?”

"They were heard closer than they should have, how long did it give you?”

Before Zayn could answer her, Stan showed his face through one of the doors with a wide smile, announcing that the song seemed a complete success; the boys of the band, as well as the producer, had enjoyed it and the manager approved the purchase. All that was left was to discuss with Zayn the price of things, then Stan disappear inside the door, but before he could follow his friend, Zayn felt the warm hand of the Brazilian woman.

"Get graveyard land. Put it in the entrances of your house, Hellhounds would be kept in line for a while with that.”

Iricema dedicated a twisted smile on the form of a line before getting ahead of the studio.

As much as Zayn did not want to feel happy, the emotion flooded his chest, just as the black spot spread down his arm as the young men flattered his work. Beyond the purchase, Stan offered him a contract with the record company after the band finished the record; his heart was beating very quickly filled with joy.

At nightfall, the woman gave him a look of appearance before seeing him march into darkness; like Iricema was lamenting something.

In the living room of his aunt's house, Harry expected him in informal attire, talking to Maddi and his uncle Yafir, who seemed to be with his stomach knotted basing in the face he made, but as soon as he saw Zayn arrive, he composed the best his countenance could to smile at him and wish him a good evening. From there he had a blurred memory at what was going on overtime, for he could only see those huge green eyes, the wavy hair that fell delicately on his forehead to hide the forehead that had become so prominent with the time.

They reached the forest, where a campfire was waiting for them to be set on and a huge cooler. While Harry lit the wood to start the fire, he looked incredibly happy.

"Thank you for coming... to come. I wanted to talk to you.” Harry seemed to be glowing in the dark.

"We're here, it's not like I can back down. You're the one with the car.”

Harry accepted the sarcasm with an easy laugh.

"How was your thing with Stan?”

"I'm not going to stay here if that's what you want to hear. I can work perfectly from New York and send the work over” Harry twisted his face. “But it was all good with the band. They liked the songs I offered; began recording while the manager was signing the check to me” they were silent for a long time in what Zayn couldn’t help but wonder. “What happened to Camille, Harry?” He said quietly as if he did not want the thing at all, but he needed to know “What happened after I left?”

"I think Camille always knew what I was, or, well, my preferences. But I loved her, she gave me two beautiful kids and a house to go in the summers in the south of France” pause. The fire was beginning to burn. “After what happened with your father... she was there in a way that I couldn't for you, and it took me so long to understand what I had done and how it had affected you, but it was too late. I got married and had two girls; your father stopped drinking after he was diagnosed with cirrhosis; at that point, I think he started to look after you… No like he never did, but, you know, he did it properly after the diagnostic… I think he wanted me to forgive him, so when Camille left me, I sold the house to pay for maintenance. I don't know, Yaser was there for me and lived longer than he should have, as if he'd been given life, like God give him more years to atone for what he had done to you because he suffers… I know that for good.”

Zayn remembered the calls his father had made to him over the past year, his aunt's calling for him to come home to see the old man, but he had found it easier to turn his eyes to the other side while Yaser would rot on a hospital bed, and what was he supposed to do? For as long as he remembered, the man beat him up time after time, it didn't matter if he was drunk or not, and Zayn had his dose of suffering for the rest of his life, he didn't need to forgive an old man who had never done anything for him apart of giving him life and some money to survive each day, struggling to get another morning to live.

"I wanted to see you again,” Harry whispered. “After you left, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Everything gave the impression to be so blue as if the light of the world has been ripped for me.”

Zayn wanted to scream at Harry, that every single piece of suffering was well deserved for what he cared. That he moves on so easily with Camille because she was everything Harry ever dream of and he was not.

They kept quiet after that. At least a while as the level of alcohol in his blood increased, for which they did not need much beer, for both were not used to drinking, or at least it was notorious that Harry, after a bottle, was getting drunk because his eyes were crystalline. So that's where Zayn takes the courage; something that has been burning his throat for a long time explodes in his mouth.

"Part of me expected you realize how much I loved you; that you went to New York and told me to come back, to hold me in your arms as many times before. I was hoping for you to tell me that you loved me, me and no Camille” Harry saw him with wide eyes. “But I leave that illusion behind after the first year... Shit, I'd even written a song for you while cleaning up my tears in that shittie flat in New York. You had Camille and I didn't have shit. An alcoholic father and a hospital debt that I still can't afford today” Zayn’s voice broke “and all you gave me was a note… one you couldn't even give me yourself, a nurse had to do it for you. And what’s the next thing I know while I was recovering in bed? That you get with the beautiful French girl that you adored so much; you sang the songs that I had written for you… You leave me… you… you…”

Zayn felt Harry's arms holding his shoulders as he cries. Nose fluid fell to his mouth as tears fill his eyes; and he was sure it was a spectacle unworthy to see, but the knot in his throat, the one in his heart that impede him from being able to breathe for years, was gone.

"I wanted to go” the Harry was talking in his shoulder; it looked like he was crying too. “I really wanted to go with you, but... everything I had was here; I couldn't leave everything behind. I’m not that strong, never been… I couldn't take that leap. I couldn't leave my family behind even when the thing I wanted most in the world was to be with you.”

"Then why didn't you go after Camille left?”

"No... she took my girls, Zayn; I couldn't get up from the bed. When I recovered, I realized that I was no longer the young man you fell in love with, very old, no longer the charming boy. Many years had passed, and you did not want to come back even to see your dying father, then why would you come back for me?”

"Then why now? You're even older and it's been longer.”

"When I saw you, I knew I had to try. I thought I would never see you again, and if you left before I could talk to you, I think I could never forgive myself… I couldn’t do it again.”

They hugged for a long time, until they both finished the crying, straightening to its maximum height and looking into the eyes. Harry tried to kiss him, but Zayn plays it off. After that, it wasn't long before they packed up to return to the surroundings of Bradford.

That night Zayn felt much calmer, and although he questioned whether it had been right to kiss Harry, his soul appeared lighter than his last second on the big apple. He slept peacefully that night until the next morning, just before the sun came up and as the cold was getting more noticeable; he heard some glass breaking near his head, so he opened his eyes suddenly to see the ceiling: he still had time to sleep, but he felt the pillow sink right next to his ear, and a feeling of emptiness in his chest became present. He wanted to turn his face to check that it was just his imagination, but when he felt someone's hot breath in his hair he decided to turn his back on that part of the bed to start praying.

The energy next to him did not fade, it seemed that it took the heat out of his body as it emanated his own, what feels like a hand was still on the pillow, very close to him, like it was listening to his heartbeat. He felt so weak with a hole in his chest; the clock hands were the only sound that filled his ears. Zayn wanted to turn around, he wanted to see what was next to him, what it wanted to take from him, but he couldn't even open his eyes, barely being able to breathe.

The door of the room suddenly opened as her aunt announced the arrival, being the vivid imagen of happiness as she sings, opening the curtains, and thanks to any divinity, causing the presence to leave.

"Zayn, honey, it's almost 11, get up now. We should be with the lawyer by 12:30. That man is no one you could leave waiting.”

_"Of course, he would be a man, the bastard of Yaser's_ _could never hire a woman,"_ he thought to himself.

They all had breakfast together for the first time since Zayn was in town. His uncle seemed to have made up his mind to the idea of his nephew, did seem to be feeling comfortable in his skin, but for some reason, Zayn still saw the alcoholic man who was his father in his uncle Yafir; not only because he was his twin, but because they did things the same. They judged him the same way.

At 12:32 his uncles, Harry, and he were gathered in a small white room in a busy part of Bradford where the noise of the town was constantly heard. The lawyer was a man about 47 years old and hair too black to be natural; prominent glasses. Maybe he had paid for law school by serving alcohol at some bar in the city.

When he began to read the will, the first thing he emphasized was that the will had been altered a few months before the death of Yaser, then he read:

" _The stock I bought from Ritta's Diss is for Yafir; take advantage of that opportunity I give you, dear brother_ ” Zayn knew it was a locals builder's firm that would probably go bankrupt within the next years. “ _I left all the money in my bank account to Maddi; I never thanked you enough for taking care of my son while I couldn't, even when he was on the other side of the world. The house is for Harry, learn to make that place a home, dear boy_ " the lawyer fell silent, trying to look for something at the end of the document. “Ah, here it is. _To my son Zayn, I leave the apartment in Newcastle”_ everyone in the room opened their eyes wide, that must have cost a fortune _. “It is a good property, maybe it can serve you well. Besides, I am leaving this letter in the hope you can read it someday.”_

The man hand over Zayn the letter and he said his goodbyes to everyone so they can leave the office. As a group, they went to Yaser’s house, where Harry left Zayn’s uncles for a moment to show his old lover his room once away.

"I'm sorry about yesterday, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, but I thought... I don't know what I thought.”

"It's all right, Harry. Just because I didn't want to kiss you doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you told me…”

"Would you like to try again? The… you and me thing?" Zayn smiles kindly.

"We'll have to see what happens...” Zayn takes the lawyer's letter out of his pocket at the same time as the song fell to the ground. “This should be yours; it's the song I wrote to you when we were teenagers, or more like when I was in New York. I finished it a few years ago... Is... at back are the chords.” Harry didn’t waste a minute, wanted to open it right there. “If you don't mind, I'd like to read this” Zayn raise the letter “in private.”

"Of course...”

Harry left a soft kiss on Zayn cheek, close to his lips, then left the room. Zayn could not control the huge smile that was spreading on his face. He still hated Harry for all the bad things, but something feels different.

He opened the envelope, finding a simple sheet with his father's handwriting.

_"Dear Zayn, I know you will never forgive me for what I have done while you are alive, but I have searched in every corner of the world for redemption so that I can be a better father to you._ _I am sorry I did not understand that you loved Harry_ when you two _were young, and I know I scare the love of your life away; I understand it now. He also loved you so much; still does, but he was not as strong as you, he took the easy way after he saw how bad I hit you; I break your heart as well as your bones. I do not know if you remember, but he had his part in the beating too, not as bad as you, but I think I break his nose while he tried to defend you. After his wife left him, I welcomed him in my house- not a home, no without you here-. In a way, I think_ _Harry_ still keeps a part of _your heart, and a glimpse of you is better than thinking you're on the other side of the world starving while you pay that stupid Hospital bill._

 _I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world; that I was blind for not being able to understand that you like men and even after you were out of the hospital, I keep beating you up for that reason. I truly hope you find love in your life; I'd like to know that you and_ _Harry_ _have solved your problems, but I don't think you're ready to forgive us yet, and I don't expect you to, at least not with me, but you're the only thing I have left in this life and for many years I hated knowing I was your only one. I'd like to be something you hold on to, no someone you want to escape from._

_I'll leave you an apartment in the center of Newcastle; I hope you can do with it something that pleases you. I hope you succeed in music as I denied you to do so many times. I really hope that you love madly until you feel that your heart is going to burst with so much love, and I hope you do it with a man like you always wanted and it was so natural in you._

_Love you, Baba."_

As Zayn finished reading the letter, he felt his body as light as the air. He knew he could forgive his dad now. That he forgave Harry for leaving. He forgave them.

He hears a knock at the door and then his aunt's voice saying that the food was ready, he wanted to respond, but the howl of the dogs was heart breaking; very high. Then he saw the bloodied eyes of huge black beasts that scratched him in the chest. He screams, but his voice felt as if he were underwater.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it as much as I liked writing it.


End file.
